


In the Dark of the Night

by ceywoozle



Series: A Long Way Home [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, I'm so sorry, Missing Scene, Not A Happy Ending, The Hounds of Baskerville, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 15:45:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1434028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the mystery is solved and all the loose ends are tied - Sherlock and John's last night at the inn in Dartmoor.</p><p>(I've set this in the same storyverse as A Long Way Home, but it is a standalone work and you do not have to have read that story to understand this one.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allonsys_girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/gifts).



> Prompt from anigrrrl2 on Tumblr requesting the missing night at the inn in Dartmoor during The Hounds of Baskerville.
> 
> Unbeta'd and not Brit-picked. Let me know if anything jumps out.
> 
> I ended up writing this as part of the same universe as A Long Way Home so it's sort of like a depressing sort of pre-fic missing scene. It's referenced in one of the chapters as that time in Dartmoor that for a short space of time John Watson was actually happy. Poor dude.
> 
> HOWEVER! It is completely readable as a standalone fic. No reference is made to A Long Way Home in the fic itself, it is simply my way of giving John and Sherlock an eventually happy ending in my own mind.

The blackness that lies beyond the ring of lights surrounding the inn is almost impenetrable and John can feel the beginnings of panic, the encroaching terror, something primordial that has nothing to do with reason, just the creeping sense of being watched, of something coming, sliding closer and utterly invisible beyond the light. Any moment it will appear as if from nowhere, seeping from the edge of shadow like the darkness made flesh, extending supple claws into the ring of light, eyes glittering with an unholy hunger.

John is shivering and he can't make himself stop. He takes a step back, aware of the inn door behind him, so close, five steps at the most, and he gauges the distance between himself and the edge of the light. Twenty steps at least. Surely he would reach the inn first. If he turned around. Ran forward instead of stumbling back. But the idea of turning his back on that shadow is almost unbearable and he takes another step backwards, just in case, one less step to take later.

And suddenly there is something on him, behind him, a weight that presses against his shoulder, clamping down and he can feel the sudden leap of his heart as he whirls around with a cry, his hand reaching for the gun in his waistband that isn't there because idiot of idiots he's already put it away, slipping it back into the room safe after the local police had finished taking his statement, before he'd come back out here to look for Sherlock and Greg, in the dark, alone, with the night creeping up on him.

“John! Jesus Christ!”

It's Greg and the weight on his shoulder is Greg's hand, pressing down in a friendly grip and John is panting because now he's thinking about what would have happened if he had had his gun and he can almost feel the ghost pressure against his trigger finger, the spray of blood against the dark wooden door, and he almost vomits.

“Jesus, John!” Greg has him by both arms now, half supporting him and John gasps, pushing him away.

“Fine, I'm fine. Oh my God, Greg, oh my God. This fucking place. This fucking case. Jesus _fucking_ Christ, I'm going to kill him.”

“Sherlock? Yeah, I know that feeling. Come on, up. You okay?”

“Yeah. Jesus. Yeah, just this...this bloody drug. _Aerosol dispersal._ Fuck. I swear to God something's going to come out of the shadows and eat me.”

Greg laughs, a high-pitched nervous sort of whinny and John sees his eyes flickering uneasily to where the darkness is settled, completely impenetrable from their place in the light.

“Christ, John, don't get me started again. I nearly blew a hole in the sink when a spider came up my drain just now.”

“Be bloody happy I didn't just blow a hole in you.”

“My legal firearm and I are just going to pretend we didn't hear that,” Greg says with a twist of his lips and John grins at him. It's shaky and there are far too many teeth in it, but it's a grin and John can feel the adrenaline begin to leave him again as he begins to shake, his teeth clattering as he gives a huff of laughter.

“I'm sure Mycroft will be grateful.”

Greg gives him an enigmatic look but says nothing and John feels a tug between satisfaction and remorse. Remorse because he likes Greg, but satisfaction because he fully knows that there's a connection between the Detective Inspector and the British Government.

“Look,” Lestrade says, kicking the edge of a cobblestone with more force than is necessary. “I know he probably has it all figured out and all but could you not mention it to Sherlock maybe? You know, my name and Mycroft's name in the same sentence.”

John nods, smiling slightly, and they both know that the only reason he agrees is because Sherlock absolutely does know.

There is an awkward silence and it's Greg who breaks it, shuffling back towards the door. “Well, I just came to find you. Sherlock went upstairs already, thought maybe you'd be looking for him.”

“Yeah? Thanks. I'll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah, maybe. Who knows, might sleep in.” He grins, his teeth too white against the tan, and John smiles back and waits for the door to shut before turning back to the dark. It's still the same as it was, almost solid-seeming, like a wall constructed to separate two different worlds. He feels the beginnings of panic return and he pushes it down with a stab of anger. He takes a determined step outwards, heading for the edge.

He plants each foot solidly on the ground before he lifts the other, as if anchoring himself to the earth will somehow keep him grounded. It's a long walk, far longer than it should be. Twenty paces, then eighteen.

Fifteen.

Twelve.

Seven.

The dark is drawing closer but somehow it's not the dark anymore, every step he takes draws him further from the light and closer to the world beyond it and it's not a wall, it's not solid. Dartmoor takes shape behind the edge and then even the edge is blurred until he's not sure where he's standing, if it's light or dark that he's surrounded by. And immediately he is comforted. Because he knows the darkness is not an absolute and that there is nothing waiting to get him just beyond his sight. It's simply night and there is nothing wrong with him at all.

“John!”

He turns, sees the distinct shape of Sherlock hanging out of their second floor window, dark hair flapping in his eyes from the wind that's kicked up. He knows Sherlock can't see him, that the contract between brightness and dark is too much for him just as it was too much for John, and John smiles because Sherlock can't see him right now and that's okay. He stands there, staring, while Sherlock peers into the shadows and misses him.

_“John!”_ Sherlock calls again, and this time John can hear the beginnings of panic in his voice, the broken consonant at the end, and he remembers that he and Greg weren't the only ones to breathe in the drug.

“Here!” he calls back and immediately starts to walk back, his steps quick this time, far quicker than they had been going out, and watching Sherlock he sees the immediate slump of relief in the sudden sag of his coat. It's gone in a second, that shoulders straightened, the face wiped clean, but John saw it and he tries not to smile too widely as he steps back into the light, stopping under the window.

“John, there you are,” Sherlock says.

“Yes, I'm here. I'm coming up now.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock says. “Bring me tea.” Then he is gone, pulling himself back into the room and shutting the window with an audible thump.

“Bastard,” John says, but he is smiling when he does.

 


	2. Two

John finds Sherlock sprawled on the bed, his coat flung across the small wooden desk chair and half way over the desk itself. His eyes are shut tight, his arms crossed behind his head, and his socked toes pointing at the ceiling.

“Tea,” he says as soon as the door closes behind John and John sighs.

“There's a kettle on the desk.”

Sherlock's lips curve into a frown and one blue eye cracks open. “I don't like that tea.”

“Well, tough.”

The frown deepens and the other eye opens. “Where were you?”

John sighs, pausing in the midst of pulling his jumper over his head. “Where was I when?”

“Just now. Outside. I heard you talking to Graham. Something about Mycroft.”

“It's Greg. And it was nothing, really. Just teasing.” He finishes pulling the jumper off, the coarse wool dragging at the skin of his cheeks and clinging to his hair. It's damp from the air outside and smells faintly of sheep. He folds it carefully, the edges coming together in satisfying tandem and he smooths it out against his chest before placing it on top of the single padded chair in the corner of the room. He can feel Sherlock staring and he turns around, catching the smile before it has a chance to disappear.

“What?” he asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Your hair.”

John puts a hand to his head, feels the disordered mess from the sweater and drags a hand through it.

“No, it's fine,” Sherlock says and he's smiling again, the slightest tug at the left corner of his lips and John can already feel his own mouth trying to respond.

_No. Don't encourage him._

“I know it's fine,” John says and he frowns as heavily as he can.

_Too obvious?_

Sherlock stares at him, the look he gets when he's trying to deduce.

_Yeah, too obvious then._

John deliberately turns his back before he starts to unbutton his shirt and he strips it off, folding it carefully along its seams and setting it down on top of the jumper. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him again when reaches for his belt buckle and he forces himself to keep his back turned, to ignore him and just keep going.

_He's just another bloke. Remember the army? Lots of blokes. No problems there. So just...forget it. Just take your damn trousers off and go to bed._

He unzips the flies and pushes his trousers down, kicking them off his feet and picking them up off the floor to fold. He can feel the gaze on him still and he knows he blushing, can feel the heat in his face and he curses himself because he's supposed to be in control of this, this is not supposed to happen.

“Listen,” he says, trying to ignore the way his voice cracks over the word. He's far too aware of the fact that he's standing there in his pants and his vest. “I need to sleep if you want me awake in the car tomorrow, so if you're going to...I don't know...think or something, just try to keep it down.”

Sherlock looks insulted.

“I don't make noise. Not when I  _think_ anyway.”

“Right. Good.” John still hasn't turned back to face him, but if he turns off the light first he'll be fine, Sherlock won't be able to see. So he goes to the switch and flips it, but even then he's worried because Sherlock always knows when these things happen and John doesn't know what's worse, the deliberation of Sherlock's voice when he tries to talk over it if John starts to bring it up, or the way he's able to so thoroughly ignore it.

He practically throws himself into his bed in his eagerness to get in and drag the blankets as far over his head as he can. Sherlock won't know if there's nothing for him to see, and John knows that's ridiculous even as he thinks it because Sherlock always knows, even when he doesn't say anything, but it doesn't stop John from doing it anyway, hunching over on his side with his back to the other bed, the blanket dragged to his chin. He swears he can still feel Sherlock watching him even then.

They are both silent then, laying in the dark. The window is closed and absolutely no sound penetrates the four walls of the room. John can hear Sherlock breathing, the quiet inhale, exhale, the push of the lungs, the compression of the chest, the unending exchange of carbon for oxygen, of one gas for another. It is the loudest sound in the world right then and John can feel his teeth gritting together, the ache in his jaw as he starts to grind.

“I'm sorry.”

For a second John wonders if he's fallen asleep without realising it and he's now dreaming because that sounded oddly as if Sherlock was apologising for something. For what, not even John knows at that moment. For the eye balls in the microwave? The toes in the kettle? The tea experiments? The disappearing milk? The sheep's blood in his jam jar?

“Erm. Okay,” he says.

“For the sugar,” Sherlock clarifies with a note of exasperation in his voice.

_Ah. For the non-consensual drugging._

“Oh. Okay.”

There is a silence.

“Well?” Sherlock demands.

“Well, what?”

“Aren't you going to forgive me?”

John makes a face in the dark. “Does it matter?” he asks.

Another silence, then, “No. But it would be the polite thing to do.”

There is a moment during which there is so much that John wants to say to that that he can't say anything at all. Then, because there is absolutely nothing else that he can possibly do, he starts to laugh. Loud, long, gasping peals of laughter that have him curling around his aching stomach, tears running down his cheeks. His is aware that he is slightly hysterical, that the events of the night, of this whole weekend, have finally caught up with him and that in this moment he is not entirely sane. Sherlock certainly doesn't thinks so. He is sitting up in the bed and staring at John and in the faint light John can make out the look on his face, a mixture of confusion and outraged dignity that only cast John into even higher levels of helpless mirth.

It's several minutes before he's able to control himself and slowly he manages to work his way back down again. When he's completely calm, even the last few chuckles worked tiredly away, he takes a deep breath and turns to Sherlock who is still watching him in the dark.

“Sherlock,” he says. “You're an utter bastard. Of course I forgive you.”

 


	3. Three

Sherlock is still staring at him and if John wasn't used to the oddity that was his flatmate he would probably question it a bit more. As it is, he simply wishes he would stop because he can feel himself begin to twitch awkwardly under the covers.

Sherlock seems to get the hint because a minute later he gives a grunt and flops back down onto the bed. John, looking over, can't tell if he's scowling at the ceiling or not. He wonders if he should worry, if this is going to be the prelude to a particularly vicious sulk, but he's exhausted and his head is starting to hurt and he had hardly slept the night before, when thoughts of that scowl in front of the fireplace had kept him awake, those four words that he will probably hear until the day he dies no matter how many times Sherlock retracts them, the uncertainty and insecurity eating away at him even now. “ _I don't have friends.”_

He begins to drift off, the feeling of being slowly disconnected beginning slip over him. He can still hear Sherlock breathing but it has stopped being irritating. It feels...natural. Good. Like it's  _supposed to be,_ that sound occupying the same space as him. He can hear it, every breath, every exhalation a measure of the distance between them. It's an intimate sound and John can imagine hearing it right beside him, a gentle susurrus beside his ear, the feeling of warmth against his cheek long after they've both fallen asleep. He can imagine it so clearly, the long line of heat against his side, the indentation in the bed that doesn't belong to him, gravity slowly pulling them together. It's such an easy thing to imagine, lying in the dark, everything silent but for Sherlock's soft breath.

“John.”

He jolts upright, instantly and painfully awake.

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

Sherlock is on his side and watching him. “You said my name,” he says and John is sure that his blush can be felt all the way in London. Somewhere, Mycroft is sitting up in bed and asking a flunky to turn down the heating.

“No,” he says and he lays down again, oh so carefully. “I didn't. You probably misheard.”

“No,” says Sherlock. “I didn't.”

In the middle of the humiliation, John can feel the first stab of frustration.  _You don't want this, Sherlock. You don't want this, why are you doing this now? Is this punishment? Is this because I laughed? One humiliation in exchange for another?_

John hates this place, hates this case, hates Sherlock. Dartmoor. Fucking Dartmoor. This wouldn't have happened in Baker Street with them safely ensconced in their own rooms, doors firmly shut in between where John could sigh whatever name he wanted in his sleep without being pointed and laughed at afterwards. He should have booked two rooms, should have insisted, but they couldn't really afford it and besides, some guilty part of John had leapt at the idea, of Sherlock this close for two whole nights, two entire nights with only a single yard of empty space separating them. After Irene Adler, after...he had thought...she was dead. She was gone. He could try, right? And Sherlock had heard, at Battersea, Sherlock had heard everything. Surely, it was worth a try. Right?

“John.”

_“What?”_

“It's just...it matters.”

John frowns. “What?”

“It matters. That you forgive me. It matters.”

There is silence again and John tries to read it, tries to understand it, some nuance that he's missing or overanalysing or not analysing enough.

“Why?” he asks finally because he honestly wants to know, needs to know.

“Well,” Sherlock says. There is a pause. John can almost hear him scowling. “As abhorrent as it is, I find I would be troubled should I find that you were...unhappy. With me. Or otherwise, of course. I would like it if you were happy.” He says the last word as if it's something fluffy and clumsy he's picked up from the gutter.

John has  _no idea_ what to say. “Does it really matter?” he asks because that's his rote response by now and he's not entirely sure what else he  _can_ say.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and John can feel the jolt when his heart almost stops. And then Sherlock is moving, sliding off the bed and kneeling in the intervening space, resting his arms on the blanket beside John and John is staring at the ceiling, wondering what's happening to him, if this is the drug, if any second now Sherlock is going to go cold, start laughing, his eyes lit with mockery and disgust and John will be left with nothing but shame.

“John,” Sherlock says and John can hear that baritone rumbling through the bed and his entire body seems to vibrate with the frequency of his name said in that voice.

“Sherlock,” he says, and it comes out half-choked. He can feel Sherlock's breath against his ear, the wet heat on his cheek and John turns his head, just enough that he can see Sherlock's face, too close to his, and their lips are suddenly inches apart.

John thinks he might be having a heart attack.

There is the whisper of silk shirt against cotton sheets and then Sherlock's hand is lifting towards him, the pale fingers coming into brief contact with the skin of his throat, fingertips skittering lightly over his flesh and John feels his breath hitch.

“You'd let me do anything,” Sherlock says and John doesn't even know how to answer that because it's true. He would. He would let Sherlock do anything.

“John,” Sherlock says again, and once more there is the brush of fingertips, sliding for a moment around his neck, circling it entirely and resting there and the fact that John can't breathe has nothing to do with the pressure on his windpipe.

And then the hand is gone and Sherlock is retreating and John is almost too dazed to notice the way he stumbles slightly and the way his breath is coming heavier and faster as he slides back into his bed and pulls the blankets to his neck. Almost, but not quite. He does notice it, and something in him leaps wildly into the air.

“Good night, Sherlock,” John says, and he wants to put everything he is feeling into those words, every heart beat, every breath, every shiver, but he can't, because there is once more the feeling of having too much to say, of wanting to say everything, right now, all at once, but there is just too much that in the end he just says that. “Good night.”

“Good night, John,” Sherlock says, and turns onto his back and closes his eyes.

 


	4. Four

John doesn't even know how he falls asleep, his entire body tense and shaking with adrenaline and something else, something he's less able to define.

_Relief. Want. Terror. Joy. Disbelief. Elation._

John has no idea. He stares at the dark ceiling, eyes wide open and teeth clicking together as his body tries to adjust, tries to revert itself back to normal, to mere existence, and it must work because the next thing he knows John is opening his eyes and it's light outside and the thing that wakes him is the room door shutting as Sherlock slips out.

There is the immediate stab of disappointment but he shoves it out of the way. He's surprised that Sherlock lasted as long as he did and he wonders if he actually slept at all or if he'd just spent the whole night staring at the ceiling and waiting for it to be light out.

John gets ready as quickly as he can and at the last minute decides to take a shower. He can still feel the patina of sweat and dirt and fear from yesterday and he's determined to strip it off. As he lathers the soap over his chest he remembers Sherlock's fingers on his neck and he almost doesn't wash it, wanting to keep those prints on his flesh for as long as he can and he laughs at himself because of the absurdity of it. He thinks of those hands making new trails, different marks, and he can't help the sudden bubble of laughter that wells up, incredulous and...odd. He sounds odd even to his own ears, utterly unfamiliar, and he realises that it's because he sounds happy, completely besotted, and he laughs again just because he loves the sound of it skidding over the tile and drowning in the steam.

He dries off with record speed, ignoring the clothes he wore yesterday and pulling on something fresh, something clean, and the material feels almost new against his skin, dragging at the damp spots he left behind. He drags a comb through his hair, a bit of product, then hunts down his shoes and pulls them on, lacing them up with shaking fingers.

He practically skips down the steps to the lobby and when he sees Sherlock, standing at the bar with a menu in his hand, it takes everything that he has to keep from grinning like an idiot.

Sherlock spots him and smiles, genuine, anxious, and he waits till John approaches before speaking. “I ordered,” he says, and even at the words Billy emerges from the kitchen, plate in hand and grinning nervously.

Sherlock takes it and thrusts it at John. “Here, go, eat. I'll bring the coffees.”

 

* * * * *

 

It's mid-morning by the time they pack and get everything into the car. Sherlock paces impatiently while John pays the bill. There's no sign of Greg yet and John wonders if he slipped off earlier or if he really is still sleeping somewhere upstairs.

He comes out of the inn and Sherlock immediately spots him and makes a face.

“Done?”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on,” John says and climbs into the already open door of the car. Sherlock slips into the drivers seat, the ignition already running, and the car has started to move before John's even closed his door.

“Oi! Hold on,” he mutters, making sure all his limbs are inside before slamming the door shut and as soon as it is Sherlock is off, an impatient pump of the gas pedal that sends gravel flying behind them.

It's only when they hit the M5 that Sherlock starts to relax, leaning back in his seat for the first time since leaving the inn, his grip on the steering wheel relaxing. He sighs, a deliberate sound that comes from his nose instead of his mouth and his left hand comes down to rest on the seat at his side.

On an impulse, John reaches out, but even before he touches him Sherlock is flinching away, all the tension returning in an instant and John stares at him and he knows.  _He knows._ And he wishes he could just let this go, wishes he could just ignore it, go like this the whole trip, their whole lives without speaking these words, staying in the stasis of  _things not broken yet_ . but he can't, he knows he can't, and the only thing he debates it whether or not to ask Sherlock to pull over first.

“It was the drug,” Sherlock says abruptly and John has no idea what that means. He sees the flicker of Sherlock's eye, the half glance cast in his direction, gauging his reaction and John very carefully keeps his face as neutral as possible. “I was...when you disappeared into the dark like that,” Sherlock continues, and he is nervous, he is afraid, and John doesn't know what to do about that. “After talking to Greg. I watched you walk away. I thought you had left. I didn't...the drug made me think that maybe you weren't coming back.”

“O-okay. Well, I did.”

“Listen to me, you're not listening!”

“Just...can you talk to me, Sherlock? Tell me what it is that you're trying to say?” John's afraid too now, can see the blatant retreat on Sherlock's face, the wide-eyed terror of an animal cornered and caged.

“It was a mistake. You misunderstood,” Sherlock says and even though John is sure that something in him has stopped working, some vital organ stuttering to a standstill, he can't even pretend that he's surprised. “It was...I was afraid. And I thought...I thought it was something else.”

John says nothing. Has no idea what to say. Wonders if there are any words in any language in the world for this moment. If there are, though, he doesn't know them.

For a long time there is only the hum of the car on the asphalt, the rush of other cars around them, the occasional roar of a lorry. They are silent but this isn't the silence of Baker Street, of comfortable mornings and late nights, and John knows he needs to fix this, knows he needs that silence back because the alternative is unthinkable.

“It's okay,” he says, and he feels the corner of Sherlock's gaze on him before it turns back to the road.

“John–”

“No, Sherlock. It's fine. Really. I told you. It's  _all fine._ I know what you are and it's okay. It just...can't happen. I get that. Really. It's fine.”

Another silence, still tense but of a different quality, the silence of Sherlock trying to find his way through the labyrinth of human sentiment.

“Are you sure?” he finally asks.

“Yes,” John says and his voice is utterly steady, his face neutral, blank. “Absolutely. I understand, Sherlock.”

He can see Sherlock nodding out of the corner of his eye but he can't bring himself to look. He can feel something building in his chest, something that will need to be let out very soon, but not yet. Not now. Now he nods back, staring out the window on his left, nothing on his face that will give him away.

And finally Sherlock sighs, a quiet exhalation of breath through his mouth and John can hear the relief in it and he thinks that might be the worst thing of all.

“Good,” Sherlock says. “Good,” and he smiles, a tight, uncertain thing, but a smile nonetheless, and John, staring out the window, says nothing at all.

 


End file.
